Insomnia
by eve-the-extraordinary
Summary: The brilliant Sherlock Holmes is without a case. John Watson has met a girl. Both men, however, have one thing in common- the oddest, most unexplainable feelings. Eventual JohnLock.


**Hi guys! So this is my first fanfic, it's also the first piece I've ever written that people are going to see, so I hope you like it. I WILL be continuing this story, it's not a oneshot! Lots of huge thank you's to alex-the-awesome for her edits. Please leave me reviews, it's a huge help, and constructive criticism is much appreciated. Love you all! Eve**

**Insomnia**

"SHERLOCK!"

John closed his eyes and slowly massaged his temples; taking carefully measured deep breaths. He opened his eyes and eyed the lanky man that was lying outstretched on the couch with four nicotine patches on his right arm and a pistol in his left; shooting it at random intervals with his eyes closed.

"Yes, John?" Came the nonchalant reply.

"We've had this discussion about seven times in the last MONTH, Sherlock! SEVEN TIMES! And yet you still can't find something to do with yourself that doesn't involve destroying Mrs. Hudson's walls when you haven't got some murderer to chase! God, Sherlock, this is bordering psychopathic!"

"I'm not a psychopath, I'm a high-functioning sociopath. There is a difference, John." With that, Sherlock gave him an exasperated look. "Honestly, John, what do you expect me to do? Life is so dull…so dull, in fact, that I fear my mind may start drooping to Anderson's level, and GOD knows that that Lestrade would never be able to cope without me; all he's got is that band of bloody idiots!"

John gave Sherlock a look, not just any look, but THE look. The one he had mastered throughout his year of living with the eccentric consulting detective.

"Alright, fine, I was exaggerating. But there's absolutely NOTHING to do!"

"I see your violin in the exact same spot that it has been for the last week. In fact, the dust is still in the exact same pattern. You could play your violin, Sherlock. You were attached to the bloody thing when I first moved in!" John's patience was wearing thin. He had a date to get ready for, yet here he was, babysitting his blooming flatmate, of all people. It really bothered him sometimes, the way Sherlock acted like a five year old when all that was wrong was that there was no ridiculous investigation to participate in.

"John…"

"Yes, Sherlock. What is it now?"

"Who's your date tonight?" His tone was abrupt, sharp- a colossal change from the nasal whiny tone he had used less than twenty seconds ago. John froze. He turned around, very slowly, an action that did not escape the brilliant Sherlock Holmes.

"What? I'm not going on a date, what makes you think that?" His response was quick- too quick. Even after the months of sharing a flat with one of the most brilliant men on the planet, John was still prone to slipping up.

"Your hair. You've made an effort with it- some sort of gel. You're wearing a silver watch- expensive looking. Your shirt is pressed, the crease in your DRESS trousers is freshly pressed. The way you're so short tempered and unusually irritable when lecturing me about shooting walls says that you're in a hurry to get somewhere, most likely fancy. And lastly, your cologne; it's Armani. Agua di Gio. Particularly favoured by women, if you believe the tabloids, as you obviously do, judging by the massive stacks of them in your room-"

"YOU WENT INTO MY ROOM? Sherlock! That's an invasion of privacy! What is wrong with you?"

"It's not an invasion of privacy, John, it's investigating. And I was bored. Let me finish, now- I'm right, aren't I. And don't try to lie to me, you of all people should know that it doesn't work." The dark haired man steepled his fingers and rested his chin on his thumbs, studying the military man- who was CLEARLY dressed to go out, with a woman- standing in front of him. He studied his best friend with his usual piercing gaze. Tilting his head to the side, John was startled- Sherlock's usually expressionless face had a strange look to it, some kind of emotion?

"Yeah, right!" John scoffed, mentally laughing at himself, "Sherlock is not capable of emotion." But the look on the detective's face had managed to worm its way into John's heart, even though he had utterly no idea what it was. "Fine. Her name's Lily. She's a nurse at the clinic, and she reads the blog. We've been speaking quite a bit the last few weeks and hit off, so I asked her out for a round of drinks tonight."

Sherlock's face was a mask. "Well then, I hope you enjoy your night with Luna. Have fun. A new bar just opened up on Abigail Street. I've heard it's quite nice. Have fun."

"Bloody hell Sherlock! What's the matter this time?" John's aggravation was evident in his tone.

"Nothing. Just go."

"Sherlock. What's the matter?" As annoying as his flatmate could be, John did love him, deep down; in a brotherly way, of course, said his mind. But as this thought passed through his mind, he felt a tiny, barely-there twinge of pain in his chest. "I'm serious, are you alright? If you're not, I can cancel." As he said these words he felt the urge to roll his eyes, another night of grown-man sitting, brilliant. But these feelings were washed away, to John's surprise, by a feeling of- love? Protection? He shook his head, trying to wash away his mental dialogue.

"NO John, I'm FINE! Just GO!" And with those angry words Sherlock drew his knees to his chest, tucked his head in, and rolled over to face the wall, effectively ending the conversation.

"You know what? I spend over half of my time looking after you, worrying about you! And yet you continue to act like a petulant child for whatever obtuse reason you have. Bloody hell, Sherlock! Start acting your age!" And with those words spat out, in a venomous tone Sherlock never would have dreamt of hearing from his friend, John grabbed his leather jacket and stormed out of the flat.


End file.
